Minutia
by chibiness87
Summary: To know Molly Hooper is to love Molly Hooper. It's just, sometimes, it takes a guy a little time to notice. Eventual Sherlock/Molly. Now complete.
1. Bramble and Pine

**Minutia, chapter 1**  
 **Rating** : G  
 **Spoilers/Season:** 2.01 Scandal in Belgravia  
 **Disclaimer:** Not mine

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Minutiae

mɪˈnjuːʃɪiː,mʌɪˈnjuːʃɪiː,mɪˈnjuːʃɪʌɪ,mʌɪˈnjuːʃɪʌɪ/

 _noun_

plural noun: **minutia**

the small, precise, or trivial details of something.

* * *

She's changed her hair, and the dress is gone. Her heels have been exchanged for flats, and this, this is the Molly he knows. Gone is the biting lip, the unease. She is in her element in this lab, and for the first time all day does he feel somewhat normal. It's only when she says everyone else was busy with Christmas does he see her true loneliness, and this, _this_ is when the shame really hits.

And then he has to identify a naked woman, and the shame he feels only increases by her stare. Because there is the expected curiosity and slight judgement there, but also resignation. He doesn't know which one he feels more acutely, but coming from her, from the one person he has been able to rely on, no questions asked… he doesn't know how to process that. He has to get out of the room, has to leave. It's too much.

He makes his way to the entrance of the hospital, the taste of the low tar cigarette still on his tongue. He's waiting on a cab; nothing but nothing will see him getting a lift back home with his brother, when he sees her out of the corner of his eye.

She is shivering, the coat she is wearing doing nothing for the snow which has begun to fall around them once more, and he gives a soft sigh. For someone so intelligent, her inability to dress normally is truly astounding. Slipping his coat from his shoulders, he steps close to her, sliding it around her with a soft, "Here."

She jumps, obviously not having heard his approach, and this close he can see the redness of her eyes.

She's been crying.

It hits him like a physical blow, and he gasps. "Molly."

"Who was she?"

She bites her lip, and he can read her shock at asking the question aloud. But of all the people he knows, after the way he has behaved tonight, he knows she is the one person with a clean slate to ask whatever she wants.

"She was… a person of interest in a case I'm working. That's all."

Molly blinks, long and slow, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, and he feels a need to clarify further. "That's all it was. I promise."

She nods, acceptance in her gaze now, and not for the first time he wonders at her continuing presence in his world. His heart feels lighter, and since when has anyone had this… this _sway_ over him? He has no idea what it means.

She gives another shiver despite the way his coat is smothering her, and he sighs. Stepping closer, he uses his body to shield her slightly from the biting wind. When she looks up, he can see the shock in her eyes.

Defensive, he goes on the attack. "You're cold. Despite the added layers you're still shivering. Possibly due to the quick shower you had before coming in. Your hair is still damp, the cold air making your head cold. Really, Molly, have you not considered investing in a hat? Not to mention…"

"Shut up." Her voice is quiet, but he hears it as she had shouted. _You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always_. And here he goes again.

"I…"

But she interrupts him before he can finish the thought. Her hand comes up, almost touching him cheek, only to fall away at the last moment. "You have an amazing gift, Sherlock. Really. The way your mind works… it's unlike anything I have ever seen." She ducks her head, and he can hear her swallow, like she's building up to something. After a breath, she raises her head to his, a faint glint in her gaze. "That being said…"

He sighs, bitter remorse at his actions still weighing him down. Regret is not an emotion his is familiar with, but she makes him feel it more than most. "Molly…"

" _That being said,"_ she says again, eyebrow raised, the faint glint now a fire in her eyes daring him to interrupt her. When he remains silent, she continues. Softer now, she sighs. "That being said, if you ever, and I do mean ever, deduce me again, in front of others or not, I will not hesitate to throw you out of my lab. You being here, my helping you, it's a privilege, not a right, and I will have you escorted from the building if I have to. Is that clear?"

Sherlock swallows. It's not often he's stood up to, and this is the first time in years Molly has done so. "I…"

Her voice is firm. Strong. "Is. That. Clear?"

"Yes." He nods his head for good measure.

"Good." Suddenly, the strong woman is gone, the soft portrayal he's much more used to back in place. This time, when her hand comes up, it does make contact with his cheek, but only for a moment. She sighs. "Y'know, sometime I wish I had a mind like yours."

He blinks, honestly shocked by her confession. "You do?"

"Hmmm." Molly nods. Eyes sad now, holding a truth he wishes he could read, she adds, "But then, sometimes, I couldn't think of anything worse."

It feels like a punch to the solar plexus. "Oh."

Her hand is on his arm, stopping him from the retreat his body is aching for. "Wait. Wait. That came out…" She stops. Sighs loudly. Hand still holding him still, she manages to catch his gaze with hers. "I didn't mean that."

He still can't quite catch his breath. The sensation is new. Startling. Searching for a truth he can't read (hasn't he just promised not to deduce her?), he manages to ask, "Then what did you mean?"

Her hand leaves, and he misses its warmth instantly. Before he can ask for it back, she's answering him. "I just meant… sometimes, it seems like you see every tiny detail, you miss the big picture."

He rolls his eyes. He can't help it. "Don't be dense, Molly. You are far too intelligent for that. Seeing each detail… It is the big picture."

She shakes her head, defiantly. "No Sherlock. It really isn't."

He's confused. "What do you mean?"

"Never mind."

Before he can insist further, a cab finally pulls up, and his ingrained manners makes him motion for her to take it. But Molly is already shrugging out of his coat, shaking her head as she does so. Handing it back to him, she nods her head in the direction of the cab. "Go ahead. I'll catch the next one."

He opens his mouth, intending to argue, but she only shakes her head. "Go on." She gives him another soft sad smile, so filled with a multitude of meanings, and he can't detect a single one. He wonders when Molly Hooper, plain old Molly Hooper, became such an enigma to him as to be able to tell every last detail about her appearance one minute, but unable to determine a single thing about her the next.

The only other person who has managed to vex him so is for all intents and purposes lying dead on a slab, and just the mere idea of comparing the two women is so abhorrent he stops himself before even starting.

Molly Hooper is suddenly more of a puzzle than any case, even a 10, and he has no idea what that means. It haunts him all the way home, so much so the thought of shooting up doesn't even cross his mind.

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TBC


	2. Cedar and Ash

**Minutia chapter 2: Cedar and Ash** , by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating** : G  
 **Spoilers/season** : 3.03 His Last Vow  
 **Disclaimer** : not mine

 **A/N** : Sorry for the delay, folks. This chapter did not want to play ball, and then life got in the way.

* * *

He wakes slowly, in increments. Sensations coming back to him one at a time, almost like they're taking turns.

How very British.

Sound is the first to return. Shuffling steps, but muffled. Like they're from behind a closed door. Closer, he can hear the periodic scratch of the turn of a leaf, the squeak of a screw paired with a squeak on the floor. A chair, then. But none of the rooms in his flat would cause that sound, and he furrows his brow slightly, concentrating. Giving a tentative sniff, he is met by scents of sterilisation and detergent, underwritten by a faint hint of cherry. Under his fingers, he's aware of scratchy bedsheets, and a pressure around one arm, and, oddly, the opposing hand's fingers. A pressure which increases and then loosens. Increases and loosens. His hand. Someone is holding his hand, squeezing it periodically for… what? Reassurance? His or theirs? Every time his hand is squeezed, he feels a slight tug on the back of his hand too, coupled with tickling sensation that lasts halfway up the arm before tapering off suddenly at the elbow. His mouth feels dry, tastes stale, tongue heavy and scratchy against the roof of his mouth, and he pulls it away with moue of displeasure. The slight pressure on his bed by his hand shifts slightly, the smell of cherry getting stronger. A faint hint of lemons underpinning the cherry, both mixed with something altogether more unique.

Formaldehyde.

Formaldehyde?

He finds the strength to crack one eye open, and yes, of course.

He should have known.

"Molly."

Her name is more of a croaked sigh than anything else but she squeezes his hand again in response nonetheless. "Sherlock." She tries to give a smile. Falls quite short. "How're you feeling?"

And then she blushes, turns away. Pulls her hand back. "Sorry. Stupid question."

She runs a hand under her eyes for a second, gives a slight sniff, and it hits him like a blow to the gut. Like Mary's bullet to his chest. She's been crying.

"Molly."

Her gaze meets his, and he is surprised by the emotions there. He expected what he saw in her face the last time he dared to set foot in her lab. Fire and anger, but all he sees is pain. "You know what you did was stupid. I don't need to sit here and tell you that."

"I…"

She doesn't let him continue. "And I'm sure you had your reasons." Softer, almost under her breath, like she doesn't want him to hear, she sighs, "God knows you always have reasons."

Shame hits him. Deep and visceral. "Mol…"

"You could have died, Sherlock! You could have…" She bites her lip, hard. Tears are welling, but she does not let them fall. He forgets, sometimes, just how strong she is. "I'm not going to ask you to apologise. God knows you'll never do that. But I just…" And now her voice does crack, pain and fear obvious, but there are other emotions there he can't place, when she asks, "Was it worth it?" Her hand waves around, and he surmises her question she can't find the words to say. _Was it worth this?_

Before he can answer, he sees her deflate, the fight going out of her. "Sorry. I should… I uh…" She glances away, towards the door, and he can feel her need to escape. He's about to nod. To give her an out, a way to leave now she has had her say without causing offense. She's on a break. Or she's visiting before work and needs to go because her shift starts soon. Or it's after work and she needs to leave to look after her cat, now _meat-dagger_ is no longer on the scene. The only thing is… he doesn't want her to go.

How… odd.

"Stay." His voice is still scratchy, still weak. His hand fumbles on the bed, the drip wire (ah, that explains the tickling sensation) slipping down to hang loosely by the bedside. He manages to snag the corner of her cardigan, gives it a slight tug. "Stay."

Her shoulders slump, and he's so sure, so completely certain she's about to walk out the door and he'll never see her again (good riddance; hasn't he messed her life up enough?) when she turns to the cupboard by his bed, pours him a glass of water. "Here." Slipping a straw in, she levels it in front of him, giving him a slight stare. "Slowly."

He takes a tentative sip, pleased when the cool water calms his aching throat. He takes another, letting the liquid coat over his mouth before swallowing it down. The effort of that simple task is enough to tire him, and he slumps back against the pillow, shaking his head when Molly offers him the cup once more. "No."

"Ok." He watches out of the corner of her eye while she replaces the glass. She sees him, or senses him, because she turns to face him, eyebrow quirked slightly. "What?"

"Thank you."

She shrugs, moving to take a seat on the rickety, plastic chair once more, a tentative unspoken truce between them. "It's just some water, Sherlock."

He shakes his head quickly, but it makes him dizzy, so he stops. "No."

Her hand reaches for his, but then she stops. Seems to reconsider. Her hand falls limply in her lap. He wants her hand back. Wants the pressure, the reassurance he is here. Alive.

Because of her.

He wants to tell her how important she is. Wants to explain that, without her, he wouldn't be here right now. Wants to say so many things. But he can feel the tug of the painkillers sending him back to sleep. Fighting it, he manages, "Saved me."

Her hand comes back to his, and he can't hold back the twitch at his lips. "What, Sherlock? What do you mean?"

Eyes heavy, he blinks slowly. "You saved me. In my head."

Her eyes widen, the shock obvious. "I'm in your head?"

"Mmmm." He nods slightly. "Saved me."

A memory of her hand on his cheek. Fire and anger and hurt in her eyes. The horrible words he'd lashed out in a fit of anger. Deductions and exposé, when he'd promised he never would do that to her again. Forcing his eyes open, daring to meet hers, he asks, "Why?"

"I don't know why I'm in your head. Only you can answer that."

He shakes his head, willing her to see. To observe. "No." He squeezes her hand. "Saved me. Always. Always save me. Why?"

"Sherlock," she sighs, "you know the answer to that."

He huffs. "This is one of those big picture things I don't understand, isn't it?"

She huffs a laughs, small and brittle, but the sound of it soothes him. "Yeah."

He pouts, eyes closing. It's been years, and she is still a puzzle to him. Barely awake, he sighs, "Still don't know what that means."

He thinks she laughs again. Soft and light. A pressure to his temple for a moment. Her hand? Her lips?

He's going to ask her, but the pull of sleep is too strong, and he drifts off.

When he wakes again, she is gone, and a spread of tabloids decorate his room.

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TBC


	3. Blackthorn and Mulberry

**Minutia, chapter 3: Blackthorn and Mulberry,** by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating:** G  
 **Season/Spoilers** : 4.02 The Lying **Detective**  
 **Disclaimer:** Not mine

* * *

He pauses in the doorway, glancing through the window, not quite daring to step foot in the lab until he's made sure Molly's there. He's been doing that a lot around her recently; treading carefully. While he has been allowed back into her inner sanctum after the whole… Magnussen mess, he's been trying to be better. Tidying up after himself, not presuming she will help him with everything at a click of his fingers. He's trying to remember to ask these days, not just to take.

It's been worth the effort for the soft smiles which have reappeared. Her softening shoulders around him, no longer on edge that his next words will be to cause her pain.

But all of that is gone now.

Slipping inside the lab, quietly, respectfully, he gives her a small nod when her head flies up at the sound of the door closing. He leans against the wall by her desk, eyes wandering idly over the detritus of her work life, letting her continue her autopsy; happy for now to keep watching, observing, startled at the changes the past few weeks have wrought on her.

Her hair is flat. Where once elaborate plaits existed, now only a single hair tie keeps her locks from her face; the haste at which the ponytail has been donned evident in the haphazard parting, the loose tendrils. Her shirt is at least a day old, her brogues scuffed and mud-caked. A faint smell of baby powder permits the otherwise stale odour of death. There is not a hint of a cherry to be found.

She's lost weight since the last time he saw her, too. Despite the baggy clothes and too-large lab coat, he can tell the way the clothes now sag, where once they simply hung. Deep bags circle her eyes, the once fire-sparkled hue now a dull brown, the glow nothing more than a weak ember. Her shoulders are hunched, tension obvious in her whole body, despite the fluidity of her movements as she continues her work. Her lips are bare; her mouth looks small.

Molly looks small.

Fragile.

Weak.

Molly Hooper looks weak, the one thing he never thought he would say about her, and it is this that shocks him the most. So he does what he always does in situations he doesn't fully understand, or know how to salvage. He chooses to ignore it all, and plough on as if nothing had changed. He never was one to learn from past mistakes. Even when it comes to Molly Hooper.

Especially when it comes to Molly Hooper.

Finishing up, Molly slips her face mask up and off, removing her gloves. He waits patiently by her desk, and is rewarded with a tired smile when she makes her way over to him. "Hello, Sherlock."

"Molly." He tilts his head in greeting. Forgetting all his hard work, his promises to her and himself, about asking and not taking, he dives straight to the point. "I need you to do one simple thing for me and not ask any questions."

She sighs, the smile dropping from her face. "Sherlock?"

The parts of his plan relying on her are bright in his mind. "It's very important, I can't really explain why, but I promise you it is."

Turning from him her shoulders hunch up. "What do you need?"

His voice is steady. Sure. After all, it's a simple request. "An ambulance."

Molly turns, shock and fear written across her face. "What?!" Hurrying to his side, she reaches for his coat, small hands trembling slightly. Voice wavering, though for the life of him he can't determine what with, she demands, "Where are you…?"

He takes a step back, whether through instinct or something else he's not sure. His hand comes up, catches her wrist gently, stopping her frantic movement. "I'm fine." He waits until she meets his eyes. "I didn't mean right now." Rolling his eyes, he lets her hands go, shifting his eyes away from hers. He didn't mean to scare her. Not sure how to process this emotion, he goes on the offense. "For god's sake, Molly, don't be stupid. Do you really think I'd come down here if I needed an ambulance now?"

Molly sighs. Turns away from him. Starts shuffling papers on her desk. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, titles of the papers in her hand flittering through his brain, even as she mutters, "Wouldn't put it past you…"

His mind comes to a sudden stop. He should have known. Eyes casting around for inspiration, he reviews their current conversation. Taking a breath, he spins on his heels so he is facing her once more.

"Molly."

"Sherlock." There is no emotion in her voice. It's scaring him.

"I need…" He starts, then stops. Reconsiders. "I mean," he pauses, watching her out of the corner of his eye, "if you have time, I would appreciate your help with something." Her eyebrow quirks, and he feels a measure of relief. "It's sort of like an experiment."

"An experiment."

He's not sure whether it's a question or a statement, but it's a response, and he'll take that over any form of silence. "Yes!"

And now there _is_ an element of inquisition in her tone. "Into what, exactly?"

How to explain? How to get her to understand the importance of her role in this? Without her he's got nothing, and he needs this plan to work. When she raises her eyebrow in either question or impatience, maybe a little of both, he comes up with, "Predictability."

"Predictability."

Her tone is disbelieving again, but that's ok. He can work with that. Nodding slightly too enthusiastically for what the situation demands, he smiles. "Yes. Exactly."

Her eyebrow is still raised. But there is a spark in her eye, a spark he hasn't seen in weeks, and it gives his heart hope. "And you need an ambulance for this?"

"Yes." And then, because he needs her, needs her on this as fully as he is on this, he shows his hand. Just a little, just enough to tempt the inquisitive nature of hers lying dormant. "Preferably fully stocked for a full physical examination to be carried out over a distance of, hmmm," he pauses, calculating, "7 miles?"

Molly's eyes widen, this new detail an obvious shock. "Wh… Sherlock!"

"Problem?" He's adopted a smirk in his voice, confident she'll help him. After all, she helped him die; surely she'll help him live.

But Molly is shaking her head. "Even if I could get an ambulance, there's no way I'd be able to get it to Baker Street tonight."

"Oh, pfft," he waves his hand dismissively. "I don't need it today, Molly. Please." Arching his eyebrow, he gives a small scoff. "A little more credit than that."

Molly sighs. "So when do you…"

He grins. "Two weeks today." Pulling a leaf of paper from his pocket, he hands it to her. "At this address."

Molly glances at the scrawled address, then at him, her brow furrowed. "But…"

His flashes her a grin. "Predictability." Nodding at the paper, he glances once more at her desk and the piles of paper she's hastily compiled. "You'll see."

Turning, he's almost made it to the door when her soft voice from behind makes him stop. "I miss her too, y'know."

Still facing the door, not quite able to face this small woman who still manages to read him, even now, "What?"

"Mary." She pauses, her footsteps soft on the tiled floor. Voice closer, just behind him, Molly sighs. "I miss her too." He hears her swallow, her hand landing on his elbow. He wants to shake her off. He wants to hold her close. Before he can do either, she adds, "And I know it's hard, with John, but…"

"Don't." He tugs his arm away. "Please, Molly, don't." Bowing his head, he whispers, "I can't lose you too."

She gasps. "Lo… you're not going to lose me, Sherlock." He spins to face her. Her eyes are wide, shocked. Hidden secrets begging to be let out. Nervous now, she bites her lip for a moment, before asking, "Whatever gave you that…?"

"Molly." He sighs, softly. Glancing over to the desk for a moment, he nods in the direction of the papers. "I saw your resignation letter."

The little colour she has in her face drains. "What?"

His hands go up in a defensive pose. "I wasn't prying. I swear." Lowering his hands, he gives a shrug. "I just… you know me." He meets her gaze with his sharp one, daring her to refute him. "You know I see the small things."

But Molly's shaking her head. "You're missing the big picture."

He opens his mouth, ready to reopen old arguments about little pieces and big pictures, but before he can, she continues. "I mean, I haven't sent it." Turning, she hurries over to the desk. Pulls the offending articles from the piles of paper, thrusting it out to his to see. "Look, Sherlock. I haven't even signed it."

He nods in acknowledgement, smiling sadly. "But you wrote it."

Molly seemingly doesn't have an argument for that. "I… Yes." She nods. "I wrote it."

"Why?"

She sighs. "Because… Well, I mean, let's face it." Facing him, she shrugs. "This year's been... not great. Because of… well." She falls silent, turning away.

But he knows the answer anyway. "Me."

"No." She shakes her head. "No, Sherlock. Not you." She pauses. "At least, not only you. I know it's a little hard to accept, but not everything is about you." He winces at that, and Molly ducks her head. "Sorry."

He waves her off. "No. No, it's ok."

A silence falls between them, tense and awkward, and he has no idea how to break it. Molly, always the brave one, takes control. With a nod, she places the letter on the bench behind her. "I'll let you know about the ambulance."

He nods. Glances at the paper once more. "For what it's worth…" he starts, before trailing off, unsure.

She turns slightly, looking at him over shoulder. "Yes?"

Words sticking heavy in his throat, in his heart, he offers, "Mycroft. He could get you a position anywhere." Suddenly realising how that sounds, he huffs a sigh. "Not to say you can't…" he stops. Tries again. "You're more than capable to… I mean… What I… Bugger." He looks away.

"Sherlock?"

Turning back, he nods to her resignation letter. "If you want… that." He pauses, swallows. "If you want to… leave, I won't stop you." He shakes his head. "Not that I thought I would be able to… I mean… You can work anywhere." And now his gaze finds hers, holds it steady. If nothing else, he needs to her know this truth. "Anywhere would be lucky to have you. Just say the word, and if… well. Just say the word."

She blinks, a film of tears in her eyes. "You'd do that? For me?"

Heart feeling like it's lodged in his throat, he nods. He doesn't understand this compulsion, but he'd do anything for her. Including helping her move away. "You deserve to be happy, Molly Hooper."

She doesn't say anything else, and he nods. Turns and moves towards the door. He's almost there when her small voice calls him back. "Sherlock?"

He pivots, raising an eyebrow. "Hmmm?"

"Thank you."

He gives her a small smile. "Two weeks. See you then." With a firm nod, he leaves.

He ponders about the heavy feeling all the way home, but when he gets there Wiggins is there too, and as the first hit makes his way through his veins, he forgets about the heaviness. Forgets about everything, really, except the plan.

Because he has a plan. He always has a plan.

It's just… it's a little hard to remember all the details right now.

* * *

TBC


	4. Kielder and New

**Minutia,** by **chibiness87  
** **chapter 4: Kielder and New**  
 **Rating** : G  
 **Season/Spoilers** : 4.03 The Final Problem  
 **Disclaimer** : Not mine

* * *

Truth be told, he's a little mad at everyone right now.

John, for witnessing all this.

Mycroft, for causing all this.

Euros, for. Well.

And Molly. He's especially mad at Molly. Little Molly Hooper, who wouldn't hurt a fly. Little Molly Hooper, who calls him on his crap, and who slaps him when he really needs it. Little Molly Hooper, who does everything for him without question. Steal a body and throw it out a window to make the world think he's died? Sure. Turn up with a fully stocked ambulance to give him a medical on a trip to a hospital that isn't hers? No problem.

And this is so simple. Such an easy task. Say three words. He's certain she will. Of course she will. Just as soon as she answers the phone.

But Molly has always been a puzzle to him. As much as he knows her, can see every small detail about her, he still doesn't understand. His eyes remain locked on her, even as she continues to ignore the phone, making her tea.

Her eyes are sunken since the last time he saw her. Red and raw, evidence of tears on her face. The baggy jumper she is wearing hiding the weight loss he knows is there. She looks pale, no hint of blush or colour around her eyes or cheeks. No colour on her lips.

No cherries.

Behind him, John is muttering, begging her to pick up the phone, and gives a sigh when she does.

And now comes the easy bit. Three simple words. How hard can it be?

Only, he's missed something. Again. He always misses something with her, and she goes to hang up the phone, certain he's… what, teasing her? Using her, at the very least. And he's confused. Because he thought they were past all of this. Past the point where she doubted her place in his life. But maybe that was all just a smoke screen on her part, and if that's true then he doesn't really know her at all, and she might actually just hang up the phone on him. And he can't let that happen. Can't stand here and watch her die because of him. Because she was stupid enough to get involved in his life. To save his life. Again and again and again.

He's begging now. Begging. "Molly, no, _please_ , no, don't hang up! Do _not_ hang up!"

The camera, he decides, as he watches the first tear break free, is the absolute worst thing about this whole situation. It speaks of an air of predictability. Of foresight. After this is all over, he's going to rip them all out with his bare hands. Sweep Molly up and deposit her somewhere far away from London. From him.

Somewhere where he'll never be placed in this situation again.

Counting down her final moments on this earth, a bomb waiting to go off under her feet.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

To her? Doing this _to her_? On what, some kind of whim? Is that what she really thinks of him? Now? Still?

What about what she is doing to him, making him watch all of this play out on a big screen like it's a show.

A show with audience participation, no less.

He tries to entice her like he did with the ambulance, calls it an experiment. Knows it's too far when a sob breaks free, a harsh reprimand on her lips. "I'm not an experiment, Sherlock."

He's panicking now, acting purely on instinct. His simple plan backfiring, and god, he's really going to have to stand here and watch her die. Forgetting the rules, he lets his fear seep through his tone. Molly has always been able to read him unlike anyone he's ever met. It won't take much for her to realise there is something wrong here. But still, she resists.

"It's very important. I can't say why, but I promise you it is" he says. Can't, not won't. Because he will. When this is over, he'll tell her. Everything. She deserves that much.

But she still refuses. Still says she can't. Can't say it. Not to him. "Of course you can. Why can't you?"

Three words in the English language. Not even complex words. What, exactly, is the problem here? And now she is crying. A truth hidden so deep, but so clear. "Because it's true. It's true, Sherlock." She stops. Sniffs. Whispers, "It's always been true."

He doesn't understand why that would stop her. Surely, if anything, that makes it easier, not harder. "Well, if it's true say it anyway."

"You bastard."

"Say. It. Anyway."

She pauses, and he can see her mind tick. A glint comes in her eyes, the first one he's seen in days. Weeks. The strongest he has seen it since before Mary died and everything went to hell. He breathes a soft sigh; she's going to say it. She's going to say it and she'll be saved, and he'll be able to explain everything to her later.

But then she says, "You say it. Go on. You say it first," and all he can do is blink.

Stutter.

What?

"What?"

"Say it." And then her voice softens, like she understands the magnitude of the gauntlet she's just thrown down. But it's not to take it back. No. The soft voice a challenge of its own, even as she plays her final card. "Say it like you mean it."

Well, now. Here's something he didn't see coming. But if it gets her to say it, if it means she'll live, what choice does he have? After all, he'll say the words, save Molly, save the girl on the plane, and save the day.

As plans go, it seems simple enough.

They're only words. How hard can it be?

"I… I love you."

Oh.

Apology kisses to the cheek, offering of a coat in the winter chill. _You do count, you've always counted and I've always trusted you._ A day of cases, working side by side. _The person he thought didn't matter to me at all was the one who matters most_. Waking in hospital to her holding his hand. A letter of resignation that sends a dart of fear through his chest. A smile as he enters the lab. _Molly, excellent_. _Molly, great_. Molly. Molly. Molly.

The big picture.

He gets it now. Oh, does he get it now.

"I love you."

Tears tracing down her cheeks. Freckles sharp against her pale skin. Come on Molly. Please. Don't make me watch you die like this. "Molly." Come on. Begging now, definitely begging. Please, Molly. "Molly, please."

"I love you."

The screen goes black, and his chest expands. Safe. She's safe. Shrugging off everyone else in the room, he crows his victory to the ceiling. Because he won. He won. He saved her. He saved Molly Hooper.

"Saved her? From what?"

A feeling of dread, of despair settles in his gut, even as the truth comes out. No.

Emotional context.

Well, he definitely has that right now.

The coffin, her coffin, still sits in the middle of the room. He's vaguely aware of John and Mycroft leaving, but all his attention is focused on the pale wood.

No. Not her coffin. Something like this will never be her coffin.

His fist comes down on the lid, the force breaking it in one fell swoop. But it's not enough. Not nearly enough. So his fist comes down again. Again and again and again, until all that's left is scraps of fabrics and splinters of wood.

No.

His day does not improve from there.

(Neither, he suspects, does Molly's.)

The first thing he does upon reaching the capital is to go to her flat. Just to see, to make sure. And yes, it is still there, still in one piece. No signs of explosions or damage. She's not home, it's the middle of her shift and she's nothing if not responsible to her patients. She wouldn't let them down, even after what he's put her through. Letting himself in with his key, he does a thorough search, while making sure she won't be able to tell. He finds all the cameras in the kitchen, a further three in the living room, and two in the bedroom. The only place that appears to have been spared is the bathroom. There are no signs of recording devices; it appears they were designed for live streaming only. One small favour in all of this.

Closing the door behind him, he dumps the whole lot in the first bin he passes, not caring in the slightest small electronics shouldn't be disposed of in this way.

After all, he has bigger things to worry about.

The lab is quiet, benches all clear. She must be in the morgue.

Standing outside the door, he takes a quick glance through the window. And yes. She's there. Scrubs hanging off her slim frame, goggles and face mask hiding most of her from his hungry gaze. She's close to finishing, threading a needle to begin to close the incisions she's made, when she glances up, and her cool eyes meet his.

Taking it as permission, he slips inside the door, words of apology, of explanation on his tongue. "Mol…"

She doesn't look at him, begins her stitching. "Get out."

Her voice is clear behind her mask. Cold. Indifferent.

"I…"

"I said," she pauses, meets his eyes with hers, and for a second, half a second even, he wishes she hadn't. Because her eyes are not cool like her voice was. They're something far worse than that. They're dead. "Get. Out."

"Mol…"

"Don't make me call security." She seems to falter then. Eyes closing for a moment, he sees her take a breath. He can hear the strain, the crack being held back by will power alone. Not looking at him, she sighs. "Please, Sherlock. Just go."

He gulps a swallow. Dry and choked. Nods, for the little it's worth. She's still not looking at him. "Coffee," he says. "Please Molly. We need to talk." He pauses. Waits for her to say something. When she remains silent, he bows his head, defeated. "I'll be upstairs."

Slipping out the door, he pretends he doesn't hear her bite back a sob at his departure. Instead, he heads out to the coffee shop on the corner, the one he knows she likes to indulge in when she's having a bad day. Doctoring hers in the way he knows she favours, he brings the steaming cup with him, easing himself into his preferred spot.

And waits.

Thirteen minutes later, he hears the creak of a hinge, and he glances up, hope and wariness on his face. Scrubs now hidden by a lab coat, she point to the coffee sat opposite him. "What's that?"

"Three bean latte with an extra shot of vanilla. Skim milk. Cinnamon dusting." Pushing it in her direction, he nods. "Coffee."

She picks it up, takes a small sip, and he watches her face relax ever so slightly at the taste.

"I'm sorry," he says, needing to get it out there while there is this small truce between them. He expects her to ask for what, and if she does he knows he's in trouble. Because all he can think of right now is for everything. Every small thing he has ever done to her, and how does he even start making up for all those wrongs?

But, "Sherlock…" is all she says, before glancing down. Softly, she begs. "Please don't."

He sighs. Looks away. Takes a sip of his own coffee to buy himself a moment to work out what he wants to say to her. Glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, he asks, almost casually, "Have you ever been to Greece?"

This, at least, makes her look at him. "What?"

"Greece." He quirks an eyebrow. "Have you been?"

"I don't…" she sighs, before shaking her head. "No. No, I've never been to Greece." Sighing deeply, she turns to face him. Between the two of them, she was always the strong one. "Sherlock, what has that got to do with anything?"

"Tessellated pottery." His fingers outline squares on the desk before him. And then he stops. Considers. "Well. Not just pottery. Murals. Flooring." He waves his hand in the air for a moment. "It's everywhere."

"What's everywhere?"

"Mosaics." Keeping his gaze soft, trying not to let the sheer weight of the subtext of this conversation drown him, he tilts his head to one side, half shrugs his shoulder. For any outsider looking in, they could be discussing the weather right now. Tut tut, it looks like rain. "Sort of like impressionist painting, don't you think? Stand too close, and all you see is the tiles. The brush strokes."

Molly does tut then. Turns away. "Sherlock…"

He stands, the stool behind him making an obnoxious squeak on the tile in protest of the sudden movement. He takes a step towards her, his body running on fumes. On adrenaline. On hope and fear. "You said… once. You said I miss the big picture, too focused on the details. Do you remember?"

She sighs. "I…"

But he is earnest now. He has a point to prove. "Do you?"

"Yes."

He nods. "Good." Hands fluttering by his side, he's trying to work out how to say the next part. The important part. But words, so often his weapon, his ally, fail him, and he looks at her helplessly, begging with his eyes for her to save him again.

One last time.

"Sherlock," she sighs, "it's late. I'm tired." Emptying her coffee, she places the empty cup on the bench. He can feel the truce waver, held together by a gossamer thread. "Just, whatever it is you want from me, just get to the point."

He looks up at that, sharply. Why does she always assume he wants something from her? Ignoring the voice at the back of his mind taunting him with a, _You know why_ he blinks at her. "Want from… No, Molly. No. I don't want anything from you."

Her hand comes up in exasperation. "Then what? Sherlock." Sighing, she fixes him with a glare, but it lacks all the edges of before. It gives him hope. "What is… why are you here? It's certainly not to discuss my holiday destinations or Greek interior designs or art movements."

He gives her a smile. Soft. Serene. "I stepped back. Let the tiles blend. The… the brush strokes bleed. I see it now." Taking a step towards her, he lets his voice fall low. Lets her hear all the things he doesn't know how to say. "Molly, I see it all."

She swallows. Loud in the otherwise silent room. Taking a step towards him, he can read the hope in her eyes. The love. "See what, Sherlock. What is it you see?"

He smiles. "You."

* * *

End


End file.
